It came unexpectedly, from an un-suspicious place, lo those three years ago. Lurking in the medical wards of the most advanced civilization in the world it lied, in wait. Waiting. Checking its watch. Passing time. Watching the clock. Kicking back with a brew in a recliner in front of a spring opener on an HDTV, it was called.
"Hello?" it said.
"It is time" came the voice.
The creature took another swig, yawned, stretched and slowly climbed to its feet. "It is time, indeed."
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A girl, only a teenager of a few months at the time, came down with an illness. The girl, although living in a third world country, was an American. The doctors of Honduras urged her to return to her home country and seek better care. Her parents agreed. She and her mother packed her things and departed for their home state of Texas.
Over the course of six weeks, she received treatment for several ailments, not the least of which was tonsillitis. The time came when the treatments were complete. The mother and daughter, homesick, happily returned to their eager family. But unbeknownst to them, they did not return, alone.
A happy homecoming awaited the mother and daughter. The father, two sons and second daughter greeted the haggard care seekers back to their home in Honduras. Things settled back to normal before it stroke. The mother became aware of a small, hard bump that burned. It burned mildly at first, but the burn soon mushroomed into FULL BLOWN ATOMIC NAPALM. To say it burns is like saying the Pacific Ocean is moist. To say it is hard is to state that diamonds are not real squishy. And despite the hard surface of the sore, a mere breeze of pressure will drop its host to his knees. Days pass and the atomic napalm increases intensity. Metal melts in proximity. And the pain, oh the pain.
(Ladies are strongly urged to skip the next paragraph as it is gruesome and yet entirely boring all at once. No sense wasting your time here and spoiling your meal. Move on to the next paragraph.)
The pain. Guys, ladies complain about child birth as if to say that men cannot fathom the pain and therefore we are somehow not as tough as we want to think. If you've ever had a staph infection, suffice it to say that you've put that myth to rest once and for all. For a staph infection easily surpasses the pain of child birth 100 fold. Not only that, but a staph sore lingers and torments for days whereas the pain of childbirth usually passes in mere minutes, often seconds. I wish this pain on nobody and reality will bear the truth: if you've had staph, you can rest assured in the fact that child birth is nothing compared to the sheer agony of staph infection. The pain is only broken with multiple days of bleeding and draining of a dull yellow puss. Freddy Krueger couldn't dream of a more gruesome fate. And even though, women whom have suffered through both childbirth and staph sores would agree that staph pain is worse, none dare admit that. For to do so would expel them from the sacred order of feminine martyrdom.
And now we are joined back into the main thread of the story. Since, ladies, you did not read the laboriously, gruesome, tedious prior paragraph; it can be summed up with this: Jack Bauer couldn't take a staph infection; he'd cry like a bottle starved baby.
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Before she knew it, the mother had multiple staph infections. They became so numerous, that the family physician sent her to the largest hospital in the area, also known as, "The Little Shop of Horrors". The nurses poked, squeezed and drained the sores multiple times daily. They pressed with all of their weight into each sore in an attempt remove every cc of toxin from the infected body. Anesthesia has never entered the "Little Shop", so the pain was well beyond unbearable. Alas, their efforts only help to spread the beast.
Meanwhile, the beast had spread to the father and the youngest son. Nay, it was no respecter of age. The son, a mere five years of age, was tormented relentlessly. To this day the beast returns upon the son when he least suspects it.
The mother was sent to a dermatologist, the only dermatologist, in the country of Honduras. He prescribed medications, pills, special creams and lotions. Alas, the beast began to subside. He returned periodically, but lacking the same vigor upon which first he stroke.
Years passed and he would pay periodic visits, but only a social call here and there. It waited. It went back to its easy chair and watched another ball game. It drank. It passed out; drunk with too many malts, it slept.
In the course of time, the host family once again parted ways, though only temporarily. The mother brought the two daughters and youngest son to see family and friends in Texas. The monster awoke, angry, groggy and hung over. Last week, the daughter, the very one that sought medical care in the secret lair of the beast, lo those three years ago, was ruthlessly struck by the staph monster. It deprived her of sleep, peace and struck her with unsightly sores. 1300 miles away, the beast had spawned. It had premeditated its next attack. It anticipated its victims. For while the daughter was being struck in the USA, the father was struck across the Gulf. But this time, it would not settle for the cliched locations where it once found contentment. Neither the elbow, the knee nor the underarm would suffice this time. It played for keeps. It was out for blood. Well, it was always out for blood, but you know what I mean.
The beast settled, in the father's...nose. Remember the 100 fold multiplier of the worst pain known to man, actually woman? Forget about 100. We're not in the same ballpark any more. No, thousands, perhaps millions could not describe the entrenched foe. Not only would it torment its host in the worst possible way, it would deprive him of multiple nights of sleep. And the pain? In the nose? Oh, if Mike Tyson, in the height of his career, could inflict a tenth of this magnitude of pain on his opponent's nose, he'd be the heavyweight champ well beyond his nursing home days. The host, the father, tried countless medications to relieve the pain, but they all resulted in a sort of dizzy, surreal, undead existence with little effect upon the pain. Although he was adamantly opposed, to a fault, of visiting doctors, even he, yes the rock that he is, he, sought medical help. He braved the roads of a third world country in search of medical attention, no matter how primitive, to relieve the demonic torment he suffered. Alas, there was no parking. Sad, dejected and dizzy from the agony he returned home to another sleepless night.
How the father survived such an ordeal should definitely be documented in the most prestigious medical journals in the world. Medical professionals should examine his genes for some type of super-human pain tolerance gene. Perhaps his body could be used for science, but lo, none would dare risk exposure to the beast.
Once again, the monster has settled back into his sleep. Although he did not succeed in putting the father under, he is satisfied at how close he came. It has not perished. It waits...